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“I think my roommate and I are falling in love,” I told my therapist a few months ago. My therapist and I have been working together for almost a year, and in our sessions I regularly narrate how thoroughly I yearn for a loving, intimate relationship. This context animated the lifting of her eyebrows and corners of her lips as she asked: “How do you feel about that?” My response came without hesitation: “Irritated!” She winced as though she was struck and laid her head on her desk for a long time. I laughed with nervous sincerity to fill the space that was created between her exasperation and my irritation. We spent the rest of the session talking about how I don’t know what I want, and that I tend to acquiesce to whatever others want from me. I realize now, however, that this discussion was a coverup for a deeper scandal — which is that I am threatened by getting what I want because I don’t believe I deserve it. Pain is my mistress, and without it I don’t know what to do with myself.
I realized I was a masochist after viewing the big picture of my life in all of its tribulations. I realized in this picture that I have willingly subjected myself to numerous torturous experiences (e.g., abusive relationships, dangerous excursions into frightening unknowns, strategic projections of hostility into safe spaces, etc.), and that the only way my life’s narrative makes sense was if I am a…
